Harry Potter and the Optician's Appointment
by this-bright-eyed-soul
Summary: Harry Potter had not been to the optician's in too long, and much to his dismay, Dumbledore insisted that it had to be muggle. He could not have known, however, that a muggle optician's practice could be even more dangerous than St Mungos, with Dr Riddle treating his eyes
1. Chapter 1

_Anyway this might even be more out there than Toxic, but I've written it so here it is - if I feel like it, I may even write a follow up to this chapter, but we'll see_

Harry had not been to the opticians in a long time. It had been too long, really. But with the war and Voldemort and school, he just couldn't find time for it. It didn't seem _right_ to faff about getting his eyes checked, and it seemed too vulnerable a thing to do. But it had got to the point now where he could barely read his own scrawling essays, and so his professors had insisted that he went to get new glasses.

He had wanted to go to St Mungo's, sure that they would be more able, but Dumbledore had been determined that it was safer to use a muggle establishment, as dark wizards would be far less likely to find him there. Harry wasn't too sure on this logic, but could hardly complain. It was unlikely that he would come to any harm either way. And so, Harry had been escorted by his Aunt to the building, with strict instructions to be outside again at the agreed time after his appointment.

It was a smart looking waiting room, with plush sofas, plants, and a bowl of mints on the coffee table. It was obvious a private company – it turned out that Harry, having entered the wizarding world, was no longer covered by the NHS, and so Hermione had convinced him that it would be better for both his school work and the war that he found a high-end optician, to get the best treatment possible. It fortunate that he had access to such a wealth of funds to pay for it.

He seated himself on a smart leather sofa, bolt upright and completely out of place. It should not have been possible to be underdressed for an optician's appointment, but he looked incredibly out of place with his jeans and t-shirts. He was grateful that most of the people in the room seemed content to ignore the awkward teenager.

It was not long before a lady in a white uniform called, at the exact time of his appointment, "Dr Riddle will see you now, Mr Potter."

Harry nearly suffered a heart attack before he remembered where he was. He was in a muggle opticians; he would not be battling Lord Voldemort today. As he walked towards the assigned room, he wondered about the name. He knew it was muggle, as that was why Voldemort had hated it so much. Maybe his muggle father had gone on to have other children, who had trained as opticians. It was a scary thought, and he hoped that they would not resemble the family if that were the case.

Tense at this thought, but not feeling any sense of danger at a muggle, Harry knocked on the door lightly before stepping in.

He almost sprinted back out again.

It was hard to convince himself that this was not Voldemort. He only vaguely remembered Tom Riddle Jr from his experiences in the Chamber, but he was convinced that the man before him was the adult form. Same styled brunette hair, chiselled cheekbones, charming smile. The only difference was the brown eyes when Harry was used to red.

"Good afternoon Mr Potter," Riddle greeted, a smooth baritone voice. "Please sit down."

Harry did as instructed, too shocked to protest or do anything.

"You are a new patient here, are you not?"

Harry nodded numbly.

"Lovely. Well then, if you don't mind I'd like to fill in a form for you. Full name?"

"Harry James Potter."

The doctor noted it down, and Harry was desperate to see if he recognised the handwriting. "Date of birth?"

"Thirty first of July 1980."

"Ah so you recently celebrated your 16th birthday, congratulations," the charming smile came back.

Harry just nodded politely.

"Are you taking any medication?"

"No."

"Wonderful. Let's get started then. Please sit over here, facing the letters on the wall. Good. Remove your glasses, very nice. Very striking eyes you have, Mr Potter."

Harry squirmed in his seat at the polite compliment, distressed at how vulnerable he now was without his glasses.

"Now, I'd like you to read from the top line if you please."

Harry began to read aloud in monotone, his head starting to hurt already from the strain on his eyes. It was only the fourth line before he could no longer read the letters.

"Oh dear, yes I can see now that your glasses were far too weak for your eyesight as it is. When did you have your last pair of glasses prescribed?"

Harry paused for a moment, thinking. He honestly did not remember – he was half convinced that his Aunt and Uncle had never taken him to an optician in the first place, merely found him a pair of glasses.

"A while ago, I think," Harry answered, weary to give any information about himself away to what he was certain was a disguised Lord Voldemort.

"Hm, yes, I can see. Now keep your eyes open wide, I'm just going to have a little look at them."

Riddle rolled over in his wheely chair, and Harry felt the man's knee digging into his thigh. It was most uncomfortable. He then branded a small torch, gently holding Harry's head to keep his eye open.

"Look up."

Harry looked up, trying to ignore the irritation of the bright light.

"Look down."

Harry looked down, watching his blurry hands fidget in his lap.

"Look right."

Harry looked right, determined not to stare at the man's face, attractive as it was.

"And look left."

Harry looked left, his eyes beginning to water slightly at being open for so long.

"You did wonderfully there Mr Potter, thank you. Tell me, have you been experiencing much stress in recent years?"

Harry let out a bitter laugh. "You could say that, yes."

"I see, well for the health of your eyes you might want to avoid this stress."

Harry nearly rolled his eyes at this statement – he might be able to if this very man would stop trying to kill him!

Riddle rolled over to his desk, writing down some more information.

"I should be able to send an appropriate prescription within a week, Mr Potter; the sooner you're out of those glasses the better. Could I have an address to send it to?"

"No," Harry blurted out without thinking.

Riddle turned to him, a curved eyebrow raised. "Mr Potter, I cannot send a prescription without an address."

"I'm not giving you my address, Voldemort," Harry said more boldly.

There was a heavy silence in which neither person moved, or spoke. Harry merely stared at Riddle, the man staring back, expressionless. A flicker of doubt went through him, thinking he could have been wrong, until he watched with increasing horror as the brown eyes melted into crimson.

"Harry Potter," Voldemort purred, his eyes predatory. "You could have gone free. I was only trying to send you a prescription. Is that so terrible of me?"

Harry's heart was beating heavily against his chest. He'd done it now – he should've escaped as soon as he heard the name Riddle. Voldemort stood from his chair, stalking towards him, and Harry stood also, chin jutted out in defiance.

"You really expect me to believe that? Could you not have just put some poor optician under the imperius and get him to bring me to you? Why go to the effort of pretending to be a muggle optician?"

"Harry, I'm wounded," Voldemort murmured, standing a mere inch away from him, looking down at him. "I have a passion for eyes, a passion far too great for Healers to understand. I had to become a muggle optician, I've worked here for decades... Well, if we forget that little blip 15 years ago," his eyes darkened. "It was a happy coincidence that you became my patient, not a planned occurrence. And you do have such beautiful eyes, Harry."

Harry had no time to think before Voldemort grasped his head and pulled him up into a firm kiss, Voldemort's mouth burning against his lips. Harry's hands immediately flew up to push Voldemort away, but the man was too strong.

"I am not ready in my plans to kill you yet, Harry," Voldemort whispered against his lips, the action feeling so intimate. "But I cannot let such beauty go to waste so soon. You are so strong, so pure... before you die, Harry, you will meet my _other_ Basilisk, but you will not slay this one."

Harry left the opticians, having paid for his check-up, feeling flustered, and astounded as to how he was leaving alive.


	2. Chapter 2

_The long-awaited follow-up to the appointment! Because we all needed some closure_

Horcruxes. Harry's entire life was horcruxes, ever since Dumbledore introduced him to them. It consumed all of his waking hours, seeped into his dreams, completely unable to focus on anything else. At least he could now see things clearer.

He had not realised how much he had been missing out on with his previous glasses, but the new prescription was so good he wished Voldemort had just stuck with the optician's route, rather than the world domination with a side order of eye care. The glasses had, in the end, arrived via owl post, which terrified Harry to no end. But there was no way he was going to tell anybody about what had happened – no-one would believe him, especially seeing as he got out of it with not even a scratch.

That meeting, as well, haunted him. In his dreams, if he was not seeing directly out of Voldemort's eye, he was seeing the diary horcrux, or the locket, or the older man from the muggle optician's, and _never_ would he be able to share those dreams with Hermione, as much as she prodded. He could only imagine what she thought he was dreaming about, seeing as they had agreed not to sleep with silencing charms for the sake of safety, but he hoped to Merlin that the sounds in the night were interpreted as groans of pain and misery.

Harry dared not even admit to himself what they really were.

It felt horribly, horribly wrong to be thinking of such a monster in such a way, but if Harry ever had the time to think about it, he was sure it was understandable. His life was just _so stressful_. Unsurprisingly, Voldemort had not put a vast amount of effort into making his life any less stressful, obviously caring more about his death than his eye health. And the human mind had to find ways to cope.

He probably needed a better way to cope.

But it was nearly over. He could sense in the air that the war would not continue much longer. Having returned to Hogwarts, Harry felt that it would be fitting for it to end here. He almost felt… no. He was determined only to end the war, and he would do it through sacrifice.

It hurt, knowing that he had to die. Truthfully, he was terrified. Especially after he'd started to _see_ the world for the first time. Individual blades of grass, the crinkles of people's smiles, birds in the distance. He had barely gained all of this, and now he had to lose it. But it wasn't a choice. Not really. He needed to save wizarding society, and it was this thought that took him into the forest.

Facing Voldemort properly since the last meeting was almost more terrifying than the prospect of death. Had Harry not had an optician's appointment from the man, he would be mildly more comfortable, as he would know exactly what to expect. But as it was, there was no knowing what Voldemort might put him through before killing him.

He was not what Harry remembered.

Obviously, Voldemort had not taken his more human form for this meeting, and was the serpentine monster he had been in the graveyard, but Harry had not remembered him being _quite_ so horrifying in appearance.

The new sense of sight had never been such a curse. Peeling skin atop Voldemort's head, cracked looking fingers, horrible pasty skin that made Harry want to retch. Voldemort seemed to notice his reaction, and a look of amusement flickered across his eyes.

"Harry Potter," he hissed, a terrible contrast to the deep voice of the optician. "How wonderful to see you again."

Harry did not react, not wanting to get himself into anything worse than what Voldemort already had in mind. In an act of surrender, he dropped his wand. Death Eaters, watching, snickered, thinking him weak.

"Leave us." Voldemort commanded.

The Death Eaters looked confused, Bellatrix disappointed, but they apparated away almost immediately.

"I've missed you, Harry," Voldemort murmured, approaching him in a predatory manner. "Have you missed me?"

Harry stood his ground, but did not trust himself to speak. He could feel the corners of his lips twitching downwards, revealing his nerves.

"Do you like your prescription? I hope you're happy with the service you received last year." He continued until he was pressed up against Harry's chest. Harry tried to calm his breathing as Voldemort's long fingers curled around his head, angling it backwards.

Staring directly into Voldemort's blood-red eyes, Harry was struggling not to panic.

"Your eyes appear to still be showing some strain, you should have taken the time to make another visit if the prescription was not up to standards. We would have served you for free, for my mistake."

"Just kill me," Harry finally choked out, desperate for this to end. He had come to terms with death when he entered the forest, prolonging it was making it harder.

Voldemort laughed. "How you can face death with such bravery is beyond me. Do you not even want a goodbye kiss?"

Harry… did not know if he wanted a goodbye kiss or not. Voldemort pressed his thin, cold lips against Harry's, and he felt his breath leave him.

"Avada Kedavra."

His world went white.


End file.
